


A tale through Seasons

by Lacertae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Omnics, Physical Disability, Pre-Canon, Shambali (Overwatch), Virus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae
Summary: Written for Zenyatta Appreciation Week day 02 - Rainy days/SeasonsZenyatta is not one to allow anything to stop him -especially not something as small as a virus.





	A tale through Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Hello yes, unexpected ficlet :D I hope you like! Written for the zen week 2018 [Zenyatta Appreciation Week (tumblr)](http://zenyattaappreciationweek.tumblr.com/)

**A tale through Seasons**

 

The soft pitter-patter of rain against a glass panel is the first sound that greets him as he wakes up.

The room is dark, but the darkness is gentle, almost cottony, softened by the wavering light of a candle burning at the edge of his vision, and his optical receptors use that focal point to readjust, though the action is slow.

Underneath him, the mattress is soft, and there is a small blanket covering his body, thin and rough.

His brain processes feel sluggish, and for a few seconds, he remains on the mattress, unmoving, mind clear of thought, and find himself oddly soothed by the sound of the rain outside.

It is not quite a storm, at least not yet, but it is a heavy rain, and he shivers at the thought of the cold, even if the room is warm on his chassis, his sensors picking up the temperature as a completely acceptable one, perhaps a little bit warmer than he expected, but not unpleasantly so.

The rain fills the silence, fills the room, lulling Zenyatta in a state that is not quite wake, yet is not sleep.

He tilts his head to the side, and catches sight of a figure sitting on a chair near the window, face plate turned to the window, observing the rain.

Mondatta is quiet, and as he isn’t turned towards him, Zenyatta cannot see if he’s powered down to rest or awake, but he looks… peaceful, there. Quiet. He is not tense, or standing upright, or moving at all, but relaxed and at ease, and Zenyatta thinks, idly, that he wishes he could say the sight is familiar to him.

Nowadays, Mondatta rarely has time to rest, or take a break.

Always moving, always working, always driving himself to the ground, every day more. So many things to do, so much work…

Zenyatta watches him, wanting to know if he is awake, but he does not speak up.

He feels that breaking the silence would be heresy –as if he would, with his voice alone, make Mondatta turn around and resume that tense, worried pose, hide his fatigue to the world behind a secure façade.

Instead he keeps watching, soothed by the silent company, surrounded by warmth and by the soft sound of the rain, still falling, but outside, not here, so he’s safe, and warm, and dry, and he’s not alone.

Mondatta never turns around, never realises Zenyatta is awake, for as long as he remains so, and this small, indulgent watch-time passes by slowly, seconds ticking by, like an ethereal world distanced from reality, just the two of them, far from one another yet together in the same room.

Zenyatta barely realises he’s powering down again, but soon, he falls back into a dreamless resting cycle, the last thing he sees is Mondatta’s profile, framed by the candlelight.

Rain continues to fall, and Zenyatta rests.

***

“You have contracted a virus,” Mondatta’s voice is grave, underlined with worry.

Zenyatta feels a jolt of guilt, more focused on being the cause of that worry than about himself.

It’s morning, but outside the window, the rain still falls, the hues of the sky a bleak set of greys, but with more light he recognises the room as Mondatta’s.

He wonders if Mondatta ever left his side.

“When did that happen?”

“A week ago.”

 Zenyatta’s forehead array flickers in confusion. “A…?”

Mondatta reaches out, takes one of Zenyatta’s hands in his own, and nods. “You have been offline for almost seven days,” he says, grief bleeding through his synth. “The virus compromised your firewall, and your systems crashed while you were out in the garden. Brother Marya found you and brought you back inside, and you never woke up.”

Zenyatta reviews the last of his memories, and… oh, he remembers being out in the garden, yes, crouching to pick up some weed from the soil surrounding the buddying flowers, and then the world tilted, and red alerts flashed through his brain and then… nothing.

“… oh.”

“We had to hook you up with the monastery mainframe and collectively secure and quarantine the virus in a conjoint effort. It was… not easy, and even then, we were afraid it was too late. Your systems took so long to recalibrate, we started to believe your core had been affected, as well.”

Zenyatta feels Mondatta’s hand tighten its hold on his own, and feels the grief passing through Mondatta as if it was his own.

“I’m s–”

“Please do not apologize.” Mondatta cuts him off, firm yet gentle. “None of this is your fault.”

“Yet it made you worry. Did you have a resting cycle since I…” Zenyatta looks at Mondatta’s face plate, at his dim forehead array, at his slumped servos, and sighs. “Of course you did not.”

“How could I, when you were in such a state, my Light? But last night, your core and forehead array powered on, and there was a ripple in the Iris that I felt as I meditated. I was reassured your systems were alright, and then you did wake up.”

Zenyatta leaned forwards, just a bit, intending to press their foreheads together, but something was wrong with his lower body, servos slack, and it made him stumble, losing balance for a moment enough that he fell against Mondatta’s front, uncoordinated and fumbling. “Wh–”

“Ah, I ran some diagnostics on your body. It seems the virus had some lasting effects on your processors and circuits.” Mondatta hummed, one of his hands moving to uncover Zenyatta’s frame. Zenyatta looked down, and though he could not see anything wrong, when he tried to move his legs, he found out he could not.

The sensors were still working, and so were the circuits carrying the orders down to them, but he could not move them.

He ran his own diagnostics, more in-depth than the ones Mondatta could, and the results bothered him. “The virus severed most of the control of my circuits. I might need an extensive work to fix this, or replace the parts altogether.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“We… do not have the spare parts here,” Zenyatta continues, slowly. “Nor the mechanics to perform this kind of minute work.”

“No, we do not.”

Zenyatta remains silent, thinking. “It might be difficult to find them, even outside. Because I am an omnic, even if part of the Shambali.”

Mondatta makes a soft noise, and wraps both arms around Zenyatta’s shoulders, tugging him closer. Zenyatta slots perfectly in his embrace, and despite the realisation that it might be a long time before he can walk again, despite the Discord welling inside him like a tide, in Mondatta’s arms he feels oddly safe.

He remembers, distantly, a memory from his past, one that he will never forget –Mondatta holding him like this on his first night at the monastery, lost and angry and full of Discord.

He’d thrashed, and screamed, and had tried to hurt Mondatta, and despite all of it, Mondatta held him closer still, soothed his anger, and his pain, until all that was left of Zenyatta was an empty shell, tired and weary.

“I will be by your side, my Light,” Mondatta murmurs.

Zenyatta feels his core tighten. Mondatta would drop everything, _anything_ , for him, even ignore his own health, and he hates it, and yet the relief he feels is enough to drown him.

Even now, like this, Mondatta is still with him.

***

It continues to rain.

Zenyatta has been comfortable with the weather of Nepal, and with the Monsoon season on them, he knows he has to expect a lot of rain, which… helps, considering he can’t leave the monastery anymore.

The rain is a soothing background music, helps him concentrate when he is meditating, and Zenyatta knows that if this had happened during another time of the year, he would strive to leave simply to enjoy the weather, but in the rain, all he can do is observe, and wait.

Soft, gentle, rain washes over everything.

Plants spring under the relentless shower, the plains he can see from the balconies of the monastery a beautiful, endless sea of green, if only a little dull because of the grey skies, but still quite a beautiful sight.

Zenyatta meditates.

Some days, he reads the scriptures left behind on dusty bookshelves, or the ones written in omnicode that the Shambali have collected overtime, or even written in some cases, and then reflects on them.

Some other days, he plunges his consciousness deep within himself, where he does not need legs to feel flightless and free.

At times, he drags himself down the long, cold corridors and out of the hall to the windows to look outsides, and during one memorable time, when Mondatta is away for one of his speeches, Zenyatta leaves the monastery.

It is a torturous experience, and it leaves Zenyatta freezing, soaked through and with his battery almost depleted, and all in all, he cannot even go that far, but he sure tries, getting his pristine clothes dirty with grass, mud and soil, streaks of brown that cannot get cleaned out of them.

He makes it to the small bridge connecting the monastery area to the path down with the small village under the mountain, but he cannot go further than that, and yet…

And yet, as he feels the pitter-patter of rain on his chassis, water soaking through his clothes, optical receptors dirty and smudged, he feels like it was worth it, as for the first time in a month he watches the world outside the monastery as part of it.

He hates being trapped, and useless, even as he knows there is no other way.

Brother Ming-Hùa finds him on his way back from the village, and panics just a little, even as he hoists him up on his shoulders to drag him back home.

Zenyatta cannot feel any sort of guilt, and though he promises to be more careful, he does not promise not to do it again.

***

“Zenyatta, what are you doing there?”

Mondatta’s voice snaps Zenyatta’s attention out from within himself, and his optical receptors flicker online again.

For a moment he looks around, confused, then remembers where he’s sitting –on the lap of one of the big, hovering statues that surround the monastery– and then looks down, meeting Mondatta’s gaze squarely.

“The view is rather beautiful from up here,” he replies, intending that to be an answer.

Mondatta’s fans click and snap, an annoyed sound, and Zenyatta chuckles.

“The view would be the same from down here, and less perilous for you as well,” Mondatta counters, arms crossed over his chest.

“Ah, but would it, really?” Zenyatta hums, with no intention to move. It took him less time to climb now than it did months before, and as it is a rare sunny day, he decided to enjoy the warmth of the sun from that cozy spot. In a way, he could come to understand a cat’s stance on warm laps just like that. “Up here, the view offers a different perspective. Sometimes, even a few inches can make all the difference.”

“Zenyatta…”

“Relax, brother. I did not harm myself, nor did I fall this time.”

“… this time?” Mondatta’s forehead array burns darker. “Zenyatta, how long have you been climbing our statues?”

“I promise you, not that long. Yet today was such a beautiful day, I could not resist.”

Mondatta sighs, the sound vibrating through his synth, weary but with just the slightest tinge of amusement. “Soon, the Monsoon season will pass. You will have many clear days. Do you intend to spend them all perched on a statue’s lap?”

“Not all of them, no.”

“Zenyatta…”

“Brother.” Zenyatta’s tone shifts again, from the tilting amusement to something more serious, and Mondatta freezes. “I do understand your worry, but I cannot spend all my days inside, waiting like a chrysalis, when we both know there will be no wings sprouting from my shoulders at the end.”

“I have sent word to the nearby villages,” Mondatta tells him, but his voice is quieter. They both know there is not much luck for the call to be answered. “Someone will know how to help. Someone will come.”

“If they do, it will be always too late. I do not intend to rust within this monastery, not when the world just waits for me out of the doors.”

“Then what do you intend to do? Drag yourself from village to village, until you find someone willing to help?”

Zenyatta takes some time to answer because if he has to be honest –he has thought about it, multiple times. It might be long, it might take him forever, but he would be able to do it.

Yet…

“No, of course I would not,” he answers. Because like this, he would have no energy to protect himself if someone chose to attack him, and then…

Well. He would not wish this kind of pain on Mondatta.

“I will simply have to find an alternative method of locomotion.” There is a tinge of challenge there, because Zenyatta is nothing if not innovative, and he _will_ find a way to work this out.

The Iris led him to the monastery, the Iris blessed him with their connection, the Iris made him meet Mondatta…

There is more to him than this, and Zenyatta will find his own way, as usual.

***

Winter approaches.

Autumn flew by so quickly Zenyatta barely notices it, though he is distantly aware, by the murmurs of other omnics and the rare human approaching the monastery, that Dashain is coming.

Zenyatta, of course, does not get to enjoy that, and there is a flicker of regret within his core at the thought, because when you are an omnic, you understand you have to grasp everything in your hands now, as you can never be sure how long you will last, in a world that hates you.

Yet, he chooses not to focus on it.

He hears the joyous exclamations of the kids from the village under the mountain as they fly their kites, watches for a glimpse of colour out of the windows of the monastery, reds and oranges and greens against the blue sky, a wish for the rain to stop, and fills his core and memory with their beauty.

On the last day of Dashain, Zenyatta drags himself to a secluded, high balcony of the monastery.

The night is cold, sharp against the sensors on his chassis, and the sky is clear, and dark, and beautiful.

He wonders, sometimes, how does the sky look to the rest of the world, because from the monastery, it is easy to believe in an otherworldly entity surrounding them.

The stars are like glittery diamonds, twinkling everywhere like a blanket, scattered and bright, and Zenyatta traces the various constellations with practiced ease, naming each star by its designation and by its name.

He has had time to read about all of them, their motionless presence every night a comfort.

Secluded, confined within the monastery, Zenyatta takes it upon himself to keep his mind occupied, so he does not have to think too hard about his legs, their useless weight holding him down, so much that sometimes he wonders if it would be better to severe every connection with them, and simply cut them off.

Yet, they are a part of him, even when he cannot use them. Such thoughts are idle yet aggressively intrusive, and he never indulges them.

The moon is bright, and enormous, and full. It stands in the middle of the sky like a beacon of beauty, pale and milky, and Zenyatta’s optical receptors are captured and drawn to it until his neck-servos ache, and yet he does not look away.

Would he feel the embrace of the Iris, on the Moon? What is its reach, how far does its touch extend to?

He knows there is an abandoned base, up there –a memorial, abandoned and empty. There has been talk about retaking the base, official channels mentioning it every now and then on national television, but for now, no steps have been taken to move there.

No time, no money, no willing voluntaries yet.

One day, perhaps.

Perhaps, Zenyatta will see it for himself, then. He has time.

As the last day of Dashain ends, Zenyatta focuses all of himself, feels the Iris burn brightly within his circuits, embraces him, and he welcomes it with all his self.

When Mondatta sits by his side, a pack of cards in one hand, Zenyatta looks at him, startled. “I thought you would be resting by now. You have had a long week.”

“You are here,” Mondatta tells him, one hand coming to caress the edge of Zenyatta’s face plate, thumb hooked under his mouth piece. “My Light, where you are, there I will go.”

Zenyatta sighs, the sound like a long, drawn-out hum, and leans into the touch.

He’s grown used to the lack of balance, to the useless weight of his lower body, and this time he does not fumble, or fall into Mondatta’s embrace, and yet he finds himself drawn into his arms regardless.

They idly play cards under the moonlight, together among the endless darkness of the night, side by side.

Above them, the moon and the stars.

Under them, the monastery is quiet and dark, humming like a human heart, like their mechanic core, like home.

***

“It might not be viable, Zenyatta.”

“So you say, but you have never tried.”

“It would require a degree of concentration that might be taxing on your body and on your system, and that method would be rather… slow.”

“I could adapt to it, if I manage to.”

“… well then.”

“Nice to know I have your approval, brother.”

Mondatta chuckles. “You always have it, my Light. You mistake me for a naysayer when I am merely concerned about your limits… but I also know that you are a challenger at your core. You will succeed where no one else has, of that I’m sure.”

Zenyatta’s core flutters, just a little bit, and his forehead array lights flicker and dance.

During meditation, it is not uncommon to end up floating in place. Their models do not have an anti-grav mode, rarely any omnic does –only vehicles and modules for heavy lifting do– so the mechanics of how it happens are not quite the same. Zenyatta does not know, himself, only that when it happens, he feels light… and yet, concentration is the key.

It takes so little to drop back down on the ground.

What he means to do, is harness this ability, channel it through the Iris, and use this to move without aid.

So that all his brothers and sisters will not have to carry him back to the monastery every time he drags his heavy body outside on the ground. So that he won’t keep on destroying all his clothes. So that he does not have to rely on the kindness of others to move.

He has wasted so much time already, and patience is long, but it is not endless.

But now he has a goal, and the means to obtain it, and all the time in the world.

Winter is long, but the sky is always beautiful, and beckons him forth, and so Zenyatta practices, meditates, and inch by inch, he makes do.

***

At first, he barely reaches the archway of the room he meditates into before his concentration slips –and then he fumbles with himself and falls on the ground in a heap.

Mondatta and Sister Lien laugh at him, synths crackling, and Zenyatta laughs with them before trying again.

Next, he goes well past the long corridor of the main hall, but when Mondatta calls out to one of their fellow monks, Zenyatta falters, and though this time he does not fall, merely floats down, it is still not quite a victory.

So, instead of distance, Zenyatta meditates and finds ways to work through disturbance.

He asks for Mondatta to read a book out loud to him, but the sound is soothing enough that though he enjoys his voice so much, he is lulled into a sense of comfort, and that does not help.

Next, he meditates and floats near his brothers and sisters as they intone chants and play their low, mechanical instruments, but music wraps around him until he’s part of it, and getting lost in it only means he’s dragged deeper into meditation, instead of keeping a focused mind.

So, he employs the help of Brother Serge, a new monk from Europe, burly and human, with muscles as big as Zenyatta’s thighs, to carry him to the village. The people there are welcoming of the Shambali, and the children of the village are all too happy to play the game Zenyatta asks them to.

It works better.

The children are loud, and rambunctious, and nothing they do has a pre-determined order. They have fun, they scream and run around, they fall and scuffle on the dusty ground, kicking and laughing, all around Zenyatta, and do their best to be a proper menace for his focus.

They are perfect.

As a thank you, Zenyatta plays with them, floats around them, carries one of them on his lap –at least the smaller, younger ones– as they play-pretend to be adventurous pirates sailing towards faraway lands, or faraway planets, let them climb all over him and tickle his metallic body until they find the right sensors and he dissolves into a giggling fit, servos twitching.

At the end of the month, as the year comes to an end, he travels with Mondatta and one of their Shambali sisters to a further village. They have to take breaks more often than they otherwise would, and Zenyatta’s battery depletes faster even then, but he is proud to say when he floats to the bigger village, that he did not need anyone to carry him the entire way, nor did he get any dirt on his new Shambali outfit.

Truth, he requires over twenty hours of recharge afterwards, and his brain processors feel like they have been trampled by an aggressive stampede of cows, but he did it.

It is somewhat weird, to divide his attention so much, but it grows easier with time, though he knows it will take longer until he can forget he’s focusing in the first place, but the results are…

He is free again.

Slow as he might be, but he can _move_.

He comes back to the village two days later, carrying sweets and fruit for the village kids, and little trinkets, and they are all happy, though… no one more than Zenyatta himself.

***

The situation is not ideal.

He’s travelled so far from home, over hills and past cities, meeting new people, friends and foes alike, reaching out to them. He ended up in a tiny place in the middle of nowhere, among tall mountains. Spring has come and passed, then summer again with its heavy downpours, and then autumn once more, colours as beautiful here as they are everywhere else, and the first snow dusts the mountain tops surrounding him.

And here, he found a lost, tormented soul, trapped not within the secluded walls of a monastery, but within himself, which Zenyatta finds is actually worse.

The stranger dislikes omnics but dislikes humans as well, takes the little he needs to survive and leaves, and Zenyatta finds the Iris pull him along for the trip, going the same way and wondering why this person intrigues him so much, nameless and with a face always covered.

Then, bandits attack.

The stranger can defend himself, but he seems tired, and undernourished, or he plainly does not care, and Zenyatta steps in, though metaphorically of course, as he still cannot walk, and fights in his place until the enemies are gone, defeated and shamed into a hasty retreat.

He does not need his legs to teach someone a lesson, not anymore.

Unfortunately, this depletes his battery, and Zenyatta slowly floats to the ground, motionless, and stares as the stranger from where he’s also sitting, panting hard, his back against a fallen rock.

“I am aware I might ask too much of you,” Zenyatta murmurs to the still nameless stranger, who keeps stealing glances at him, almost shocked, “but I require your help, now.”

This startled a curt, barking laugh from him. “After what you did there, protecting my ass like that? What do you want, me to pay you for that? I thought monks didn’t ask for compensation.”

It’s a sneer, but not one said out of hatred. The stranger is confused, and concerned, and cornered, and perhaps, just a little bit offended that someone had to save him.

“No, I simply hope you might be willing to return the courtesy, that is all.”

“… what?”

“I am unable to walk,” Zenyatta tells him, and it seems so easy to reveal his one weakness to him, his synth spilling the truth without concern nor care to this man he helped, the Iris a tinge of golden in the back of his mind, spurring him on. “Unfortunately, I have fallen ill with a virus over a year ago, and I had to find my way around my limitations.”

“You… what? You can’t… but you…” the stranger’s voice loses the steely edge, fumbles a bit in shock, more human than ever before in his confusion. “Is that why you… float?”

“Indeed.”

The man’s shoulders jump as he comes to the obvious conclusion. “You do not have the energy to float anymore because you protected me.”

“My reserves were rather low already, as I forgot to recharge on the way up the mountain, so part of it is actually my fault,” Zenyatta concedes, truth, always truth, open to this stranger, because he feels, deep within himself, that no lies will be tolerated… not even one out of omission. Not now, perhaps not ever. A troubling thought, but an amusing one. “This was an unexpected situation, you see.”

“… I have no obligation to help.” The stranger grunts, shifting just a little bit away from Zenyatta. “I could just leave you here. I did not ask you to help me. I asked nothing of you.”

“While I do, in fact, ask help of you, yes.” Zenyatta remains quiet, hands folded on his lap, and waits. “I guess I can just wait here, in the middle of the road, and possibly drag myself to a corner. I have done that a lot, during the first few months after the virus took my legs away from me. Ruined quite a lot of my clothes, and I have to say… this one is dirty enough that a little bit of writhing in the mud won't be noticed.”

He watches the other stiffen, but he continues to talk.

“In truth, I do not really require your help, no. It is simply that the idea of being alone on a frequented path, as an omnic, and with my battery depleted, makes me worry.”

The nameless stranger is now still as a statue, and Zenyatta watches him curiously, worried until he sees his chest heave into a deep breath.

Then he watches as he stands up, slowly, testing his muscles, flexing his mechanical arms, and for a moment Zenyatta worries –worries that he will leave him there as there is truly no reason this stranger should help him, help an omnic– but then he kneels in front of him, and huffs, sounding displeased.

“I will carry you with me until we find a safe place to rest. I will need that, as well.”

“Well then, stranger… thank you.” Zenyatta is hoisted up on the stranger’s back, and can feel how strong he is just by how easily he shifts his balance to account for the extra weight. “My name is Tekhartha Zenyatta, of the Shambali. Is it enough for you to share yours with me as well?”

The stranger scoffs, but there is a tinge of amusement in his aura, just a little. “You ask a lot out of me, _Zenyatta_.”

“True. What is a name, but the true essence of a soul?”

The stranger starts walking, and Zenyatta hums a tune to fill the silence, the orbs around his neck chiming softly.

It is only when they have moved further up the mountain path, roughly fifteen minutes later, that the stranger speaks again. “… Genji.”

Zenyatta hums, pleased.

“Well met then, Genji. Thank you for your kind assistance.”

The stranger –now Genji– snorts, but says no more, and Zenyatta falls quiet as well, his battery flashing alerts for him to cull any extra process so he can start recharging.

Around them, the soft breeze of autumn blows cold, but the sky is clear, and the sun is still warm above them, and the mountainside is beautiful, lush and green around them.

Zenyatta feels like this is the start of something new.

In silence, they travel on.


End file.
